


watch him as he goes

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Banter, Brothers, Drunkenness, Gen, Minor Violence, no established wincest but you don't have to squint to see it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4580247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean likes these moments, when the world seems a lot smaller. The wheel under his hand, one hundred fifty feet of lit road in front of him, brother sat next to him, and the rest belongs to someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	watch him as he goes

**Author's Note:**

> title stolen from a lyric in Foo Fighter's 'My Hero.'

One night, when a silver crescent of moonlight hangs alone against a painted black sky, they go ninety down a dirt road. Dean sits behind the wheel, one hand easily guiding the Impala through its headlights’ illuminated path. Sam slouches next to him, knees on the dash, head resting against the window. Half asleep, drifting, he breathes clouds of fog into the glass.

They haven’t passed anyone in over twenty minutes. Dean likes these moments, when the world seems a lot smaller. The wheel under his hand, one hundred fifty feet of lit road in front of him, brother sat next to him, and the rest belongs to someone else.

Dean reaches over and flicks Sam in the ear. His head twitches, and he yelps a surprised noise.

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you trying to sleep?” Dean says, all over-exaggerated sincerity. He doesn’t bother pulling the face that goes with it; it’s too dark to see.

“Asshole,” Sam grumbles.

In his peripheral vision, Dean watches Sam’s shoulder shift and settle, then shift again. His hair plays with the long casting shadows as he turns his head this way and that. “Dammit, now I can’t get comfortable,” he huffs.

“Don’t know how you ever did in the first place, all fifteen feet of you,” Dean teases.

Sam crosses his arms, and puffs out an aggravated breath, “I’ve learned to adapt to my tiny surroundings.”

Dean laughs, and chances a real glance at his brother. Sam stares out the windshield, lips pressed in a line; and his bangs hang over his eyes, burying them even further into shadow. He looks more tired than genuinely upset. They’ve been on the road all day, nowhere to go and a finished hunt to leave behind.

Dean gets confused sometimes when he looks at his brother. With a petulant pout and his eyebrows drawn in a way that wreaks defiance, Dean will see his fifteen-year-old, snooty, violent-thunderstorm-of-angst brother. A thoughtful glint in Sam’s eye, concentrated crease in his brow, Dean gets a whiff of his brother at eighteen, who left Dean for Stanford. Now, Sam looks near twelve, when he was still Dean’s kid brother, and John would keep him up far too late, wake him early in the morning.

Dean gets confused because this is his brother. He looks at this guy and he thinks, _this is my brother,_ but he doesn’t know what he means by that.

“Dean, you’re about to drive off the road,” Sam says, sounding bored.

He swerves into the left lane, fishtails for a few hundred feet. Sam puts both hands on the dash to keep himself steady. Sam’s hands are huge. They haven’t played that game where they put their hands together to see whose are bigger since Dean was the winner. He wants to do it now, just to see.

Sometimes Dean can’t figure out what the word brother is supposed to mean to him.

*

In Kentucky, they stop at a gas mart. It’s a little past noon, and they’re alone but for the cashier and an older lady looking at novelty shot glasses. Water stains leak down the yellow walls, and something rattles in the ceiling. Half the lights flicker; the other half don’t work at all.

Dean walks up and down the aisles, filling his arms with supplies they’re running low on. By the back wall, Sam grabs snacks for the road. A standard routine that they practice often.

“Hey, Sam,” Dean calls over a line of shelves. Sam looks up, eyebrows raised, and Dean holds a box of tampons over his head, “You need any of these?”

Sam rolls his eyes dramatically enough for Dean to see clearly halfway across the store. “Watch out, or I’ll just get granola bars and trail mix,” he sneers.

Dean’s eyes widen in shock, “You wouldn’t dare.”

Sam too casually shrugs, forced innocence wrenching his features, and he returns his attention to the racks of snacks. Dean puts the tampon box back, pleased with its service.

He’s comparing doses of Tylenol when a small, soft package thwacks the side of his head. He grunts in shock, drops the pill bottle he was holding. It goes rolling down the aisle. He picks up the package and sees it’s a five pack of adult diapers. He pokes his head over a stack of boxed gauze rolls to see Sam whistling, eyes toward the ceiling all nonchalantly.

Dean laughs for show. “What, you think this is retaliation? This is weak.”

Sam looks pleased with himself anyways, smirking, “Come on, Dean, you don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s perfectly natural for a guy your age to not have complete control of his bladder.”

“Ha ha,” Dean deadpans before retrieving the awry bottle.

After too long in silence, Dean decides to go for another round. “Sammy! You low on condoms or are you still holding onto that one they gave you in Sex Ed?”

Sam peeks over a box of Cheez-Its. “I can just take one from your stash. There’s only about two hundred in the glove compartment,” Sam retorts easily.

Evil glint in his eye, Dean slowly lifts a bottle of flavored lube that was next to the condoms and birth control. The moment Sam lays his eyes on it, he flushes, rosy blotches rising high on his cheeks. Dean waggles his eyebrows. Sam shoves a fist into his mouth and drops out of sight. Dean wins.

A box of Nature Valley bars, Doritos and Fritos, a bag of gummy worms, peanut butter-cracker sandwiches, a can of assorted nuts, an apple, and a six pack of Dasani water is what Sam drops on the counter.

“This is why you’re a Sasquatch,” Dean informs his brother, counting the items.

Sam ignores him, tells Dean with an amused grin, “Dude, that lady by the souvenirs told me we were cute together.”

Dean isn’t sure what face he is supposed to pull here. He forces his lips into a tight, almost smile. “What did you say?”

“I told her we were just brothers,” Sam says, grin slipping, eyebrows drawing together, as if he can’t understand why he would say anything else.

Dean’s not sure Sam knows what he means when he says brother, either.

*

This bar smells like cigarettes and vomit. The pool table stands in the back corner, where the hanging light barely breaks the wall of smoke. The music blares loud and statics. Disorienting. The floor and ceiling could trade places, and Dean wouldn’t notice.

Dean’s buzzed, reaction time cut in half. Looking but not seeing.

Sam just got punched in the face. On the floor. Pushing himself up, wiping blood from his lip. Guys—two drunk, meaty guys, mean faces, standing over Sam. The one lost a waged game. Knuckles flexing. Huffing angry breaths. Kicks Sam in the stomach. Sam collapses into the dusty wood floor. Grunts in pain.

The music is loud. Dean’s head pounds. He’s yelling, “Hey!” He’s pulling someone away from his hurt brother. His fists are meeting skin. His knee is hitting flesh. His knuckles are warm with blood. A body on the floor at his feet and he kicks its face.

Quiet now. Music off, no one talking. He can’t hear anyone breathing. Sound of the nothing between two dimensions.

He turns. Sam against the wall, held there, a fist twisted in his shirt. His head lolls; he fights feebly. Fist in the face. In the stomach. Blood, bright and wet and dripping. A pool cue in Dean’s hand, swinging. A cry of agony. Not his, not Sam’s. Another crumpled body. Dean slams the cue into its ribs, hears a crack and it’s not the cue. Sam barely holds himself up, hands pressed against the wall for support. Looks like he does when a ghost has him pinned.

“Sammy,” he breathes, touches his brother. Palm on his cheek, and Sam falls into it. “Sammy, you okay?”

Too far gone, he doesn’t respond. Blood on his face, leaking from his mouth, his nose, the cut on his cheek. Later, deal with it later. Dean pulls Sam’s arm around his shoulder, his own arm clutching Sam’s hip, “Alright, I gotcha, I gotcha,” he soothes. Drags Sam out of the bar, passing scared, staring patrons. Called the cops, probably. Gotta get out of there.

Out in the parking lot, Dean helps Sam into the passenger seat. “Dean,” Sam groans.

“You’re alright, you’re okay, I got you. I got your back, little brother.”

He knocked that guy’s teeth into his skull, broke the other’s ribs, and he did it for his brother. Dean does things in the name of brotherhood that kinda scare him.

*

A ghost in a graveyard with half a face lost in gore and a foot-long blade in each hand, horrifying in the haunting colors of twilight. Dean dug the grave, had doused it in salt and gasoline when the ghost showed up. It flung their shotguns and crowbars across the cemetery and glowered at Dean, having picked him as its target. The scratch and spark of a match, and the ghost howled. Sam lit a match, even though the ghost and Dean stood between him and the grave—he was trying to distract it. The spirit sliced Dean open before turning on Sam; Dean fell and the grave swallowed him whole, left to lay on dead wood and human remains, thigh gashed bloody and wrist sprained.

It’s after Sam now. He can see Sam’s shadow moving and the spirit’s transcendental light following. Without a weapon, Sam must be scrambling. Dean tries to climb out, but neither his leg nor his hurt wrist can hold enough weight. His uninjured hand does nothing but crumble clumps of dirt when he attempts climbing out one-handed.

Sounds of kicked up dirt, running, dragging, Sam grunting. Dean prays for an adrenaline rush; tries to push the pain down; needs to help his brother. He pounds his good fist against the grave wall, growling in frustration, this uselessness breaking him down.

A pained howl rings through the air, and Dean screams, “ _Sam!_ ”

The distinct whoosh of a banished ghost mingles with the wind. Dean is blind to anything beyond the dirt edge of the grave, and he can hardly breathe. “Sammy?” he calls.

“Dean!” Sam shouts back, voice weak with exhaustion, “I’m coming!”

“Are you hurt?” Dean demands. Darkness begins to consume everything, and Dean still can’t see Sam. His heart hammers against his chest, a steady beat of punches against his rib cage.

It’s quiet enough that Dean can hear every one of Sam’s breaths, wracked and shallow. “I’ll be fine,” Sam rasps. A bloodied hand reaches over the side of the grave, and Dean takes it with his good one. It takes an effort with both of them injured, but soon Dean crawls out and into the grass. Sam collapses back on his elbows, and Dean sees Sam’s wound—a messy, bloody laceration dragging from somewhere around his bellybutton to his hipbone.

“What the hell, Sam!”

Sam sounds like he’s drifting, “Dean, burn the bones.”

“Put pressure on that,” Dean orders before he grabs his lighter. He flicks it on, throws it into the grave. Flames erupt, consume the hole, crack and glitter five feet into the cool, night air.

Dean returns his attention to Sam, uses the fire as a source of light to examine his wound. Sam’s got his hands on it, and Dean pushes them away, rips the bloodied fabric and gets rid of that, too. Dean takes off his own shirt, trying not to jostle his sprain. He tears a strip from it, ties it around his thigh, cinching his gash; then he bunches it up and presses it into Sam’s stomach. Sam hisses, and Dean gives it a little more pressure, angry with his brother for so recklessly pestering a spirit.

“Coulda fuckin’ killed yourself, Sam,” Dean snarls; mumbles, “the hell were you thinkin’, sicin’ a ghost on yourself?” because he couldn’t keep it in.

Sam looks desperately at Dean, shaking his head manically, “Wasn’t gonna fuckin’ let my brother get killed.”

Sam acts in the name of brotherhood in ways that kinda scare Dean, too.

*

Sometimes Sam and Dean drink to get drunk. Sometimes they drink to dull the pain of a broken bone or a stab wound. Sometimes they drink to forget. On the second of November, the brothers drink to blackout; annually shove that day into unconsciousness. They get whiskey and gin and find a motel where they drink themselves into oblivion.

Dean lost Mom that day. Sam did, too, but Dean knows it’s Jessica that really gets to him. He never knew Mom, and Jessica was the only family he had for two years. Dean saw what losing her did to Sam, and he doesn’t pretend he gets it.

Sam has always been a lightweight, and today he drinks twice as fast as Dean, so he’s gone by noon. He’s wasted; face down on the motel bed, long arms and legs hanging off the sides. His hair is an untidy mop on his head, and a rosy blush daubs his cheeks and neck. Dean isn’t sober, but he feels pretty level-headed in comparison.

“We should—we should go do something,” Sam insists, pillow muffling his words.

Dean, amused, asks mockingly, “What do you got in mind, Sammy?”

“Let’s go _dancing!_ ” Sam exclaims, body jostling, but he shows no real intention to get up.

Dean laughs fondly at the thought of Sam dancing, “When did you learn how to dance?”

“Jess took me once.” Sam answers easily enough. Dean can’t see his eyes, though; they might be wet.

If Dean was sober, he wouldn’t respond. He’d let the subject drop dead. He’s not, though, so he asks, “Did ya have a good time?”

Sam snorts, “No. Don’t like dancing. Jess made fun of me, made a joke about _Dirty Dancing_ or _Footloose_ , something, I don’t know.” His hands curl tight fists into the sheets, and Dean should see that as a sign, but he can’t think that hard.

Sam never talks about Jess. Never talks about what they did as a couple or how she acted, who she was. He gets quiet and red-eyed when Dean mentions her, so he doesn’t. But they won’t remember this tomorrow, and if Sam cries neither of them will know. So Dean probes, “Was Jess funny?”

Sam breathes deliberately for several minutes before saying very quietly, “Sorta. In a, in kind of a flirty way she was funny. She teased me… but it was cute. I liked it.”

“Tell me… will you tell me more about her?” Dean doesn’t know why he wants this knowledge, but he does, craves it morbidly and relentlessly. He wants to know Jessica like Sam did, wants be sad like Sam is.

“She smelled like grass in the summer and cookies in the winter. Her, her smile was the first thing that ever made me think of home, like a real home,” he slurs, nearly incoherent, “Uh, all her pants stopped above her ankles ‘cause she was so tall, and I’d tickle them whenever she put her feet on my lap. She always… she always tried really hard to include me in everything. Wouldn’t of have had any friends without her… Jess, she had that mole, right there. Sometimes I looked at it instead of her eyes. Not ‘cause it was distracting, but… sometimes when I looked her right in the eyes, I’d—I’d think of you.”

Sam is crying into his pillow case, and Dean carries just enough fault to feel guilty.

“I wanna kiss you,” the words tumble out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop them. He’s never really thought about it before, but it’s true, probably. His brother means everything to him, and he’s never kissed someone who meant _any_ thing to him; he thinks he’d like to give it a shot.

Sam wipes tears from his cheeks. He doesn’t look startled. Confused, maybe. “That’s okay,” he says, forgiveness lilting his voice as if Dean had apologized, “Wanna kiss you too, maybe.”

“We’re brothers, though.”

“What does that mean?” Sam asks. Sam probably didn’t mean much from the question, but Dean stresses to find the right answer. We’re brothers and that means we put each other in front of everyone. It means we tease and we poke and we pester. It means we get mad and throw punches, but we never leave scars. It means we sit in roadside diners and eat pie and talk about music. It means we kill and fight and die, and we do it for our brother.

“I don’t know,” Dean says eventually because words aren’t right.

Sam just kinda stares at him for a while. Dean can’t tell what he’s thinking, if he’s thinking anything. This moment feels raw, too raw, and it’s confusing; he’s losing grasp of it. He keeps forgetting to breathe, and he might be drunker than he thought.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” Sam moans thickly. He rolls off the bed and half runs, half crawls to the bathroom. Dean watches him struggle, doesn’t move to help him. He can’t remember what they had been talking about. He takes a swig of Jack.

Dean doesn’t pretend he wants to know exactly what “brother” means to him.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading i hope you enjoyed it


End file.
